


Around The Horn

by casinotaur



Category: Hades (Video Game 2018)
Genre: Gay Sex, Happy Ending, Heel Turns (Professional Wrestling), M/M, Modern AU, Sex Work, Slow Burn, Wrestling, in which we take theseus and kayfabe way too seriously, more tags when i get more sleep, no beta we die like zagreus, sex work is real work
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-18 15:34:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28994550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/casinotaur/pseuds/casinotaur
Summary: Asterius is a monster heel with a legendary dick game, living in obscurity after a shadowban. Theseus is the king of babyfaces and misses that dick game very, very much.The burgerking erotic professional wrestling AU no one asked for.
Relationships: Asterius | The Minotaur/Theseus (Hades Video Game)
Comments: 76
Kudos: 127





	1. Chapter 1

Whoever invented pina colada mix is a god, Theseus thinks. He's expected to keep his mouth rounded in a perfect "O" for at least two more minutes, a duration he can only bear thanks to the mildly tropical flavour. He concentrates on the taste of pineapple-coconut and the thick trail of saliva dribbling down his chin, onto the gym mat under his knees. 

It’s uncomfortable, but not as bad as it could be. Theseus is not so new to the industry that he'd put up with a mouth full of numbing Cetaphil for cumshot photos. Last time a shoot pumped him with the lotion, he bit the inside of his mouth during the headlock scene.

Theseus tries his best not to share this fun fact with everyone else on set, else risk ruining the shot, again, and pissing off the photographer for swallowing too soon. They have one more scene to get through before break, maybe a nice promo showing off his dirty talk if they stick to schedule. He busies himself. Imagines how good he must look: cockteased blonde hair and fiercely sun-kissed skin. Sweat-soaked and cum-covered. Then, more tantalizing thoughts: trufflebuttery baklava, béchamel-drenched moussaka, and dolmadakia as stuffed as he was just an hour ago. After a week of ginger-lemon juices and fiber bars, he’s going to pig out like a king.

A yelp from somewhere behind the ringlights snaps Theseus out of his delicious reverie.

"Elysium!" he hears his booker crow.

Theseus gulps. Gapes. Whoops so loud he doesn’t hear the photographer groan. 

* * *

He gets the official offer letter through DocuSign in the evening, nearly dropping his phone on his massive takeout order when his eyes register how well the job pays. On top of catapulting him into a different tax bracket, the Underworld's Elysium division has other perks: paid sick days, mental health leave, unlimited personal trainer sessions, and a premium benefits package. Theseus' dick throbs reading the words "full dental coverage." What else could be expected from the world’s finest source of erotic professional wrestling entertainment, for someone of Theseus’ noble standing?

By the time he finishes going over the contract, Theseus can feel his fingers itching to tweet out the good news. The siren call of public praise almost tempts him to, but he figures he'll wait—a tweet at midnight would get buried. He'll sit on it for at least several days. The A-OK from a labour lawyer will come through by then. His marketing team can pepper his accounts with teaser posts too. For an achievement as career-defining as this, he wants as many eyes on him as possible. And it would probably be a good idea to update his merch and clip stores, as going over usually leads to a sale spike...

Organizing his clips takes most of the evening, thanks to sheer volume and Theseus' own rewatches. After a 10-hour shoot, he should be too exhausted for this and ought to delegate to his admin. Somehow, it doesn't feel like work watching a pixelated, younger version of himself suck and fuck his way through the indie circuit's finest. 

He starts with his least-viewed, mostly early work; nude beginner move tutorials as a long-haired valet, light dungeon work with face-censored doms—that Procrustes fellow’s awful bed left him sore for weeks, he remembers with a wince—and grainy solo toy demos where he oversold just a tad. Charming, in their own way. 

Theseus works his way through his bigger takedowns, views rising in tandem with his opponents’ size and his own skill level. His eyes glaze over the squash matches that end with him effortlessly pinning co-stars to the mat, sucking them into submission. The fake frathouse orgies that start as run-ins are better. He likes how he looks in those clips, with his hair curling at the ends: choking on a pillow as his ass gets plowed by a faceless freshie, tan cheeks getting clapped on silk sheets. His flushed face is centre frame, close enough to the camera lens that his watery eyes become pools of endless desire. At least, that’s what the video description he wrote underneath it says.

He thinks he looks as good in these as he did in the spectacular championship matches put on by his home promoter Athens. Their crew didn’t set up enough benches for paying audience members to watch hulking B-listers fuck his brains out, hot eyes trailing over his flesh doing thrilling things to his libido on-set. He’d work the crowd when he could catch his breath, thanking them for their attendance and calling on some of those stuck standing to touch themselves, each other, and himself if they were lucky. No wonder he perfected timed orgasms at that time, spilling right at the ref's two-and-a-half count. Too bad they were dark shows.

By then, it's almost 2 AM and Theseus is half-asleep in bed. The next clip autoplays and it doesn't register that he's hit his top-selling film until the familiar "LABYRINTH" title floods his screen, superimposed on the famous shot of him mounted atop The Minotaur. It’s a sight he sees regularly, as Twitter users still tag him in fanart of their sinful tableau. 

Seeing the conquered bull is almost pavlovian for Theseus. He feels a flush creep on his cheeks, the hand idly palming over his sweatpants in bed deciding to creep below the waistband.

Nobody expected the shoestring budget film from Crete Studios, known mostly for mid-tier stables with monster gimmicks, to pop like it had. Theseus had only taken the gig as a favour for his friend Ariadne. She didn’t wrestle, but her half-brother did and needed a last-minute sub after a greenhorn no-showed. 

As with all his roles, Theseus committed himself to nothing short of perfection. Within a day of accepting the gig, he'd written a character sheet to keep himself grounded on set.

(“A royal babyface on a journey of self-discovery,” he told Ariadne, gesturing with big, unnecessary arm movements in a coffee shop close to the Michaels she was temping at. “With a chip on his shoulder only rivalled by his hero complex and love of oration!”

"So not much acting," was her reply. No, was his, not _much_.)

Even drowsy and at half-mast, its angle is nonsense to Theseus: the him onscreen jogs in front of a greenscreened maze, using a spool of hemp rope (courtesy Ariadne’s work discount) to find his way. He skips over the chase scenes, until he gets to the first big moment: The Minotaur corners his golden-haired victim, snatches the rope from his weak hands, and ties him up with some shibari technique he’d never heard of. He fucks him into a submission hold on the floor, as onscreen Theseus both curses and urges on the foul creature between moans of pleasure. The Minotaur is a silent actor, save his occasional grunts between the obscene slapping of fur-on-skin. Well, silent except for his intro.

_("I have come to take you to the depths of the underworld.”_

_"Wow, you're tall."_

_"Thanks?"_

_"How tall are you?"_

_"I don't know. 7"1. 7"4 feet with the horns?"_

_"Oh my god, with the horns!" Theseus twirled a strand of his hair as he craned his neck to look up, down, linger for a beat longer than the director asked him to, then up again. “You are so funny.")_

But while present Theseus is constrained by the thin walls of his studio apartment and bat-headed neighbours with literal supersonic hearing, past Theseus is blessed in that department. He's mouthy, as always, even with his forehead pressed against the ground, dirt smudged all over his ripped tunic, and his ass spread open by the bullman: "Is that all you've got, beast?" A fake pant here, before another goad. "You think you can fuck a hero like that? Deeper!" A real pant there, as The Minotaur bottomed out. At the time, every inch felt like a mile and Theseus was a backseat driver.

The average viewer, Theseus knows, is pleased just enjoying the sight of a gigantic bull fucking a guy’s brains out. And he’s in that boat too, paid the toll, changed the sail, and everything. But it’s their ringwork that keeps him rewatching. The Minotaur’s perfect positioning both on-camera and inside of him. His own talent to sell every thrust as if the bull was putting his full weight behind them, to writhe just enough to appear to be actually torn between the waves of pleasure and dominating his opponent. They put on a hell of a match. 

On the shoot, he was being ravished as good as the viewer imagined—getting fucked by that dick so well that when The Minotaur finally spilled, the suspension of disbelief broke even for onscreen Theseus, who for several moments, is so carried away by the flood of toe-curling sensation that he truly does believe a beautiful monster was laying pipe on him in an ancient maze. 

I’m not acting, he had thought at the time, helplessly and ecstatically. 

And revisiting this synchronicity of audience and performer, this cosmic-level event of stars aligning for one of the greatest cinematic orgasms between man and bull, does for Theseus what it always does.

After his blanked-out vision subsides, Theseus shucks off his ruined sweatpants and throws them in the general direction of his laundry chair. That was just the first position the duo did in the 40-minute long feature, yet it almost always is enough for him to get off to. Theseus has lost count of how many 2:00 AMs since they filmed "Labyrinth" he's spent watching it under bedsheets, vibrating silicone stretching him not nearly as wide; own hand wrapped around his neck, not nearly as big; a name not wordlessly mouthed during climax, as he was never told one. Sometimes he switches it up, starts at the ending where he finally gets the upper hand, flips his enemy, and rides The Minotaur into oblivion, his thighs squeezing tight around dark fur. Or he meanders through one of the middle scenes, where his rival services his twitching hole with an impossibly long tongue until he cums, twice. Their onscreen chemistry and athletic endurance is the stuff of eternal legend for good reason. 

Before Theseus falls into a boneless sleep, he pins an old tweet he made about the film to his profile. It’s just in case the job offer leaks on messageboards, he tells himself, gives lurkers something good to spend on. 

(In the moments between wakefulness and dreaming, Theseus allows himself to imagine The Minotaur is also having a sleepless night and comes across the thumbnail of Theseus split open on his cock, perhaps remembering the off-script begging Theseus couldn't help but say aloud at the time, words whispered too quietly for the microphones to pick up, too earnest for him to even fantasize to.)

* * *

Theseus wakes up in the morning as he always does. With a yawn, a stretch, a pull of espresso, and an immediate check of his phone’s bank account app. His balance is up by a hundred dollars. Not chump change, especially for residual dues. 

The majority of that revenue comes from his pinned tweet, buoyed by helpful rts from fellow night owls and performers. The Twitter notifications from independent wrestling fetish fans make him smile as he flicks through, many fawning over their suplexes and stamina for ropework. As do the comments from vanilla followers compelled to share the erotic visuals with horny QRTS: _“I’m not normally into this kind of stuff, but Laby is a CLASSIC.” “the way theseus takes it like he was born for monster cock hnnnggg” “SEQUEL WHEN? Yea i know crete got cancelled igaf” “how the king got crowned jsyk”_

The latest notification gives him a good laugh. _“.@TheMinotaurXXX if you see this im free thursday night are you free thursday night so i can take you out on thursday night if you’re free i’d like to hang out thursday night please message me back if you’re free thursday night when i am free”_

Without thinking, he taps. A moment later, the retweet icon turns green. It takes a few moments after that and a few caffeinated sips for his mind to catch up. 

Theseus’ mind does a little scream and he almost screams along with it. But luckily, he can tamp down on that impulse pretty quick. He’s the king of babyfaces! He can say whatever he desires, with impunity! 

He says these words aloud in his work voice and, as always, they sound truer out here than inside, quelling his embarrassment. Chances are no one would bat an eye at his social media activity. RTs aren’t endorsements, right? Eh. OK, well, who doesn’t thirst for The Minotaur? Relentless against opponents of any size, viewers couldn’t get enough of his massive form against spinners and twinks. There was a time when every rookie from Athens was chomping at the bit roles Crete would roll out. 

Besides, it’s not like The Minotaur would mind. He was pretty sure they were mutuals, although he can’t recall ever seeing anything from his account. Just to double-check, he taps on his former co-star’s username in the thirst tweet. (And just to make sure he’s ready for what photos he’s bound to see, Theseus undoes his bathrobe and clears his throat, reminding his body that it could make noise and the involuntary ones weren’t appreciated by the residents next door.)

**@TheMinotaurXXX: 2 Following/404 followers** **  
****_Follows you_ **

Theseus frowns, sitting upright in his armchair. Surely this must be a fake account, he thinks, as that few followers for wrestlers of their stature is unheard of. But no, the blue checkmark verifies that this is indeed his bull. He scrolls down and finds The Minotaur’s page inactive. Apart from photo-less tweets informing readers to visit his Patreon for naked workout sessions, there was nothing. No projects The Minotaur promoted, no friendly industry colleagues he chatted with, no promoter he seemed to work with. 

Shaking his head, Theseus googles the bullman for good measure. Unfortunately, his results were just as middling. “Labyrinth” is The Minotaur’s sole lead credit on fanmade wikis, with bottom-of-the-card roles as background enforcers for other wrestlers as recent as six months ago. Before those, he appeared to bout with a few up-and-comers, but they all ended in humiliating losses. 

Theseus tries to watch the few clips he finds on Lewdtube, but can’t stomach much. He’s so sickened by what he sees that he’s compelled to let fellow viewers know where the disgrace truly lies.

* * *

**Scrawny Co-Ed Victorious Over Massive Girth [Monsterfucking]**

_7,025 Views_

_Comments [Newest first]_

“AMATEUR HOUR FROM THE GREENIE WHO SQUANDERS THE NOBLE BEAST’S FEARSOME STRENGTH. HOW ARE WE SUPPOSED TO ROOT FOR HIS SO-CALLED VICTORY? HOW CAN OUR HEARTS BE MOVED WHEN THEY ENTANGLE AND THIS FIEND TREATS THE CHOKEHOLD LIKE A WEAK-ARMED ELDER’S EMBRACE? THAT HOLD IS NO JOKE AND HE ESCAPED LIKE SAND SLIPPING FROM CUPPED HANDS. HIS FACE REMAINS UNCHANGED THROUGHOUT. IT DID NOT SHIFT FOR THE INITIAL PLUNGE NOR WHEN HIS OPPONENT THRUSTS AWAY AT HIS ENTRANCE. WORST OF ALL, THE MINOTAUR DEALS A DIRECT SHOWSTOPPER TO HIS ABDOMEN AT 15:10 AND THIS UTTER TRAVESTY OF A PERFORMER BARELY REACTS ON TIME. MY EYES HAVE MISLED ME INTO BELIEVING THIS WAS EROTICA, AS CLEARLY THIS IS A MASTERCLASS IN NO-SELLING.”

* * *

**Bovine Butt Berserker Gets Cowed By Cum-Loving Meathead**

_1,010 Views_

_Comments [Newest first]_

“WELL I HAVE NEVER SEEN SUCH BLATANT SPOTTING IN MY LIFE, AND I HAVE ‘101 DALMATIANS’ ON VHS. THERE ARE SO MANY MOMENTS (0:43, 3:44, 12: 51 JUST TO NAME A FEW) WHERE WE THE VIEWERS CAN SEE THIS SEMEN ENTHUSIAST MOUTHING THE MOVES TO HIS PARTNER. WHEN YOUR MATCH IS WHOLLY DEVOTED TO ORAL WORSHIP, FORGETTING THE AMOUNT OF ATTENTION OUR EYES WILL GIVE TO LIPS IS SHODDY WORK ETHIC.”

* * *

**Clever Witches Casts Spell Over Dumb Animal [4 Spreaders 1 Bull]**

_20,010 Views_

_Comments [Newest first]_

“THERE ARE SO MANY PROBLEMS WITH THIS ABOMINATION OF A MATCH. FIRSTLY, YOUR TITLE — I’M FULLY AWARE IT WAS IN ALL LIKELIHOOD PENNED BY A 25-YEAR-OLD MONTREAL COPYWRITER FREELANCING FOR A UNION-BUSTING COMPANY THAT PAID PEANUTS AND COULD NOT BE ARSED TO WATCH THE FULL VIDEO, SO I LAY NO BLAME AT THEIR FEET — SPEAKS TO A STORY THAT IS NON-EXISTENT IN THIS CLIP. THERE’S NO NARRATIVE BETWEEN THESE FIGHTERS, IT’S JUST MOVE AFTER MOVE WITH NARY A FLUID TRANSITION OR RATIONALE BEHIND ANY OF THE DECISIONS THIS UNHOLY WITCHES’ CIRCLE MAKES. THEY’RE DESCRIBED AS ‘CLEVER,’ BUT I BEG TO DIFFER. THEY CROWD THE MINOTAUR ALL AT ONCE WITH NO SENSE OF OTHER BODIES IN FRAME AND THE VISUAL CLUTTER IT CREATES FOR VIEWERS IS GHASTLY. 

THE MOST EGREGIOUS OFFENCE: FROM HOW THEY EXECUTE THEIR MOVES, ONE CAN TELL THAT SEVERAL OF THEM ARE HITTING HIM WITH THEIR FULL STRENGTH. THE BULL, STOUT AND WONDERFULLY RESILIENT AS HE IS, BECOMES GENUINELY WINDED BY THE ONSLAUGHT BEFORE THE SEX EVEN STARTS. GO BACK TO LEONTISKOS WITH THE OTHER STIFF FIGHTERS, COVEN.”

* * *

A deep sorrow undertakes Theseus when his rage subsides, as the vast gap between their post-film experiences makes itself apparent. "Labyrinth" gave Theseus a shine that's continued to follow him throughout his gigs, his breakout role in the indie circuit. It solidified his role as the babyface king, a title that Theseus brands himself with gusto. 

In turn, it seemed to have killed The Minotaur’s career. Those roles Crete sent his way dwindled after the feature. Now, no matter who he fights, every match with The Minotaur is scripted with identical vileness: a great mindless beast charges and is felled by one strong blow from a middling competitor. Sometimes he doesn’t even get fucked, with some opponents jerking themselves to completion over their disgraced foe. 

The revelation about The Minotaur deeply disturbs the king, but he needs to get on with his day. For the next several hours, Theseus responds to emails, interacts with fans, makes custom clips, coordinates with his booker, teaches his YMCA yoga class, gets tested at the hassle-free, works out, gulps down a protein shake, ships several orders of used togas, does a quick naked stream playing a roguelike, and finally, winds down with some simple meal preps. (The gains this week, he promises himself, will be from overnight oatmeal.) Throughout, his phone buzzes in his pocket; praise from people worshipping his content that he takes his time to read once he can settle down in bed.

As he hearts each mention, his mind turns to The Minotaur. A porn star who, by all accounts, should be just as inundated with adoration. Was his opponent not deserving of widespread industry acclaim? Wasn’t their performance a joint effort of kinetic mastery, a tribute to the bond between rivals made in the hallowed ground of adult wrestling entertainment? 

It was impossible that The Minotaur had been blacklisted. Theseus is certain he would have heard from any of the whisper networks he was privy to, seen his name on a shitlist by survivors, or thought of him while reading a blind item in a dirtsheet. He would stake his crown on The Minotaur being worthy. In fact, the more he thinks about it, the worse he feels. And the worse he feels, the more his notifications ring untrue. 

Theseus tries to speak his go-to affirming words, but finds his throat too tight. He skims his feeds, goes on a hearting spree. Works out. Jerks off. Nothing helps and the fist wrapped around his dick tugs too weak to be enjoyable. 

The bad mood follows him the next and the day after that, dimming his smile when the labour lawyer sends her approval and his agent high fives him. “Let me know once you’ve sent your copy over,” Theseus is told, “We’re throwing a fucking rager once it goes through.”

A party is the last thing he wants, but that’s not what Theseus should say. He puffs his chest. Shows teeth. Annunciates. “Absolutely! It shall be a celebration nary a soul will miss.”

His agent, used to the kayfabe, plays along. “All right my liege, you just say the word and we’ll have a truckful of ambrosia enroute. Be seeing you!”

Theseus’ waves them off, allowing his shoulders to slump once the door closes. They shoot up soon enough though, as his phone buzzes. Theseus checks his inbox and his mouth instantly goes slack around his fork.

**@TheMinotaurXXX: Hello Theseus. I read your Internet post. Yes, I am free this Thursday. Where should I meet you?**

* * *

The Minotaur is a slow eater. When he bites into the gyro, it’s surprisingly delicate; his lips only part just so. His tongue flicks for a moment to wrap around the lettuce inside the pita, pulling it into his mouth. His head sways, just a little, as he works through the food with his powerful jaw. He repeats this, several times, chewing like cud as Theseus chatters.

“So then I said, ‘Ho young warrior! That’s not how you polish a spear!’ And demonstrated quite adeptly, as you might imagine, my superior technique on his mighty member,” Theseus says, his work voice carrying over too well in the crowded room. He knows this and still can’t stop himself. 

His dining companion hasn’t spoken much since they arranged to meet at a dive bar. Nor has he looked at Theseus much, preferring to make eye contact with his plate instead.

Theseus is impressed, as it must only mean his ferocious former opponent is so self-assured in his actions that he says and does only what’s necessary to achieve his outcomes. How minimalist! Brevity personified.

Inspired, Theseus gets down to business. “Speaking of mighty members,” Theseus says, eyes darting to The Minotaur’s lap. “I have greatly missed seeing yours stand to attention among our kind. Have you strayed onto a civilian path?”

At this, The Minotaur stops chewing. 

“Hey, there’s nothing wrong with going civvie,” Theseus adds, kayfabe slipping to keep the peace. “But, why, you’re so talented! There’s no one who wrestles as passionately as you, with such speed at your impressive size.”

Then—Theseus lets the kayfabe slip a little too much. It happens. He’ll be stuck in on mode for so long that when he makes the jump to being himself, he overshoots and is Actually Himself.

“‘Labyrinth’ was the best thing I’ve ever done and I haven’t had a match-up like that since. I don’t think anyone will ever measure up to you.”

The Minotaur’s dark eyes are unreadable, but his stare feels different as soon as those words are said. “I feel the same way,” he says.

(Theseus’ heart catches in his throat, but in the moment he mistakes this feeling for gyro coming back up, so he swallows down.)

“So what happened?” he asks. “Why didn’t Crete get you over?” _Like me,_ is the ending to that sentence he leaves unsaid.

“I was shadowbanned,” The Minotaur says.

“You were shadowbanned?!” 

Theseus is the king again in an instant. He almost roars this, his righteous indignation compelling him to jump to his feet and slam a hand on the greasy table. 

The Minotaur only shrugs. “I’m only good for jobbing now.”

Getting shadowbanned—or being banished to Ebereus, as the old-schoolers called it—is a form of de-platforming social media corporations do at will to sex worker accounts. These users didn’t break any rules or promote anything illegal, only guilty of being too risque to exist without shackles. Without a word of warning, a performer could find their posts never reach a timeline, no matter how many times they tried. Theseus has known enough shadowbanned to see it be career-ending for some, especially those already struggling in the biz or without insider connections to carry them through.

Dazedly taking in his former co-star’s fate must have gone on long enough for The Minotaur, as he reaches out and lays a heavy hand on Theseus, pushing his shoulder down until the man is back on his seat.

“That’s not right,” Theseus finally says. “You’re The Minotaur. Your dick could cause famines, your seed could end them. Why, there’s not a monsterfucker alive who hasn’t spilled to your image. You deserve to be a main-eventer, fucking among the stars! Fucking with the likes of, of Boner Hydra!!” 

To this he gets another shrug. “Way it goes with joke gimmicks. I’m ring rusty anyway.”

The unfairness of such a talent lying dormant stings at Theseus’ eyes; he actually feels hot tears form in the corners of his eyes as he speaks next. “You’re no joke gimmick! You’re a victim to great injustice. Erebus is no place for you, my good bull. Nay, you deserve only the finest station as my worthiest competitor.” 

Quieter, he adds: “I’m only where I am because of you, great Minotaur.”

There’s a silence between them after that, which his companion breaks with a single word. “Asterius.”

“Pardon?”

“My name,” The Minotaur clarifies. “Call me Asterius.”

Theseus obliges as their dinner stretches on.

* * *

It turns out that The Minotaur, or Asterius, doesn’t just spend his time graciously accepting impromptu hangouts from former co-workers. He also returns the favour. 

**@TheMinotaurXXX: Hello Theseus. I had a lovely dinner with you last night. Thank you.**

And then, underneath those words, a good 15 minutes later:

**I would like to do this again.**

Another follow-up, sent seconds after the last:

**When convenient.**

A thrill goes through Theseus, even though he knows that, really, everyone says “we should do this again” and a hundred years go by. And someone like Asterius is probably just being courteous. Still.

**@KINGTHESEUS: How’s tomorrow?**

* * *

Asterius drives into his midsection with a punishing shoulder, knocking the wind out of Theseus. His back slams into the ropes and Theseus sells this hit with an agonized cry, one that barely leaves his lips before Asterius headbutts him—again and again. His hands grip onto the ropes, as if to brace, but really the death-grip keeps him steady for the actual performance: he flails in time to the attacks, throwing his head back everytime Asterius' head slam against his abdomen, trapping the man's body between his horns. In reality, the bullman's soft curls barely brush against him, feather-like enough to almost make Theseus giggle.

"Foul creature," Theseus bellows, letting go and pounding his mortal fists against the beast's broad back. At this cue, Asterius takes him by one bicep—Theseus automatically goes lax there—and lifts him into a fireman carry in one fluid motion. It's so fast that Theseus doesn't have time to worry if the horns will spear him or linger too much over the arm snaking over his crotch. Instead, he spends his time in the air marveling at the other's skills; how long had Asterius spent practicing this so as to not skewer his partner, to make his motions so instinctual that they endured inactivity? He makes a note to ask him after practice, if he's not passed out from dehydration by then.

As soon as Asterius drops him, Theseus rolls out of the surfboard he knows the bull is setting him up for and grabs the other’s outstretched hands. He yanks and Asterius comes crashing down. That would usually signal Theseus’ big babyface comeback in a match, as he’d make quick work ravishing an evildoer once they were on the ground with him. Or slow. Depends on how they like it.

They trade a few more blows before chugging water like their lives depended on it, side-by-side cooldown stretches, and a foam roller that destroys Theseus as it goes over his knots. It’s a quiet night at Theseus’ local gym, only sharing company with pilates moms on freeweights; their Airpods prevented them from hearing the wrestlers’ battlecries. Disappointing. Theseus is glad Asterius agreed to be his sparring partner, especially on such short notice, but no real practice is complete without ringside feedback. They’d set up their phone cameras at different angles on their mat to study later, at least. He has half a mind to ask the moms, “Hey, how’d that look?” and would follow through if Asterius wasn’t beside him, toweling off rolling beads from his wide neck. 

“My muscles sing of our exceptional match,” the king informs Asterius, passing him the foam roller. “Your skills remain peerless, my friend.”

The bull gets to work on his back. “You fought well too,” he grunts between rolls. 

_It’s like an indirect kiss, but with sweat_ , Theseus’ mind helpfully points out. He shoves that thought aside, but the feeling behind it comes out in another way.

“We should get together,” Theseus’ mouth says. He’s mortified for a second, but his work voice said it so it must be the right call. “We should work together again,” Theseus amends, believing himself now.

Asterius doesn’t believe him.

“I don’t need your pity,” he says as he stands, body turning to the direction of the gym’s change room. 

“Don’t be a fool, Asterius! I only speak to the evidence in front of us,” Theseus says, rushing to pack his yoga mat. 

“Your size advantage and my natural ability are made for each other,” he continues, as they shower off the workout, his voice echoing off the stalls. 

“Our adoring fans would flock to see it,” he says around a spoonful of creamy yogurt, as they fuel up in the gym’s lounging area. “A hero and his ultimate rival, reunited! It’s a tale for the ages!”

Asterius shakes his head. “Nobody wants to see me with you.” Takes a swig from his protein shake. “Don’t sully your standing.”

Theseus frowns. He hasn’t known Asterius long enough to tell if, like him, he was committed to life-long kayfabe. Then again, he’s not sure if The Minotaur’s character was always this self-deprecating. Perhaps this is some kind of new character development, where the noble beast must reject an outright offer of assistance.

Yes, that must be it. Theseus circles through the “hero’s journey” diagram that’s practically etched into his mind, convinces himself that Asterius is merely Refusing The Call, as he must at first.

He persists, taking the worked shoot approach. “Untrue! A revenge match or big bad storyline could work, there’s definitely demand for it. A SFW promo alone would titillate the masses, I’m sure my Elysium handlers would agree.”

Asterius raises an eyebrow. “They rep you now?”

“ I will pledge my allegiance soon enough!”

Asterius snorts and the puff of air jingles. “All the more reason you shouldn’t be with me. The shadowbanned are far below their notice.”

There’s a million reasons why he disagrees, but he can tell Asterius won’t budge on this. That’s OK. The bull will change his mind when the story calls for it. 

“It appears our views are not harmonious on pedigree; let’s leave it at that for now. Come, let us review our combat!”

* * *

Theseus told Asterius he would sign with Elysium, but once he gets home the offer isn’t as compelling as it was before. Which says a lot—the division is a wrestler’s paradise, where all of the worthiest talent working in The Underworld vie to be. He’d be getting top billing at the Arena sure enough, a reward for all of his hard work.

So why does his reward feel so hollow?

Reviewing footage of their prior workout had only confirmed what he’s known since “Labyrinth:” Asterius was his equal. And how lousy would it be to live in paradise while his equal rotted in hell? 

It’s that thought that gets him on the phone, wheedling with his half-asleep agent for a deadline extension.

* * *

Asterius doesn’t budge the second or the third or the fourth time Theseus brings up working together.

He tries not to test the bounds of their budding relationship too much beyond these urgings, keeps it to what he knows they have in common.

**@KINGTHESEUS: Hail, Asterius! How about a rousing bout to test our mettle against the ignoble hellhole known as 6:30 AM HIIT at the Y?”**

**@KINGTHESEUS: Fine friend! My rearview requires assistance. Would you have time for a tussle on Wed?**

**@KINGTHESEUS: Dear Asterius, your help conquering that pesky rearview was vital. From now onwards, jumping from the second rope will become part of that devilish move! Say we celebrate at the establishment we patronized last Thursday?**

He keeps waiting for the bull to shoot him down or leave him on read; for his presence, radiant as it is, to do what it always does. But Asterius keeps saying yes. Well, saying yes and saying no.

He knows he’s being a touch overdramatic. Asterius told him over their last dinner that he paid the bills by picking up bouncer gigs at nightclubs in the village and the odd coffee shop shift. 

The semi-retired strongman seemed satisfied enough with his civilian life in the shadows. Or maybe compliant would be the right word. But Theseus wasn’t and he knew if he didn’t do something about the inequity, he’d never sleep well again.

So he sends a text or two, along with a drive of their gym clips. Pulls a few strings. Arranges another meeting with his agent. 

* * *

“Elysium wants you,” Theseus says, by way of hello. The sight in front of the massive bull standing behind a checkout counter, his buxom physique nearly bursting out of a barista apron, had left Theseus too dumbstruck to do anything but blurt.

“I’m on the clock,” Asterius says, clearly not hearing the mind-blowing news. “Are you getting anything?”

Well, if he’s already here. “Iced skinny mocha, blend banana and protein scoop,” he instructs. “Asterius, Elysium wants to hire you!” 

The bull’s back gives him no response as he sets about to make Theseus his order. And when Asterius turns around, cold beverage in hand, his face is inscrutable. Theseus pays and stabs a straw into his drink, but doesn’t budge from his spot by the counter. 

“My friend, I do not jest. They offer you a full-time position, alike in standing to mine!” 

Asterius is unchanged. Theseus tries again, one last time. “They have dental.”

At that, Asterius’ bovine ears twitch.


	2. Chapter 2

“I’m so close,” Theseus moans. His opponent’s head bobs up and down, pace and rhythm unchanged after Theseus’ admission. 

Theseus tries not to let the frustration show on his face. “It feels amazing,” he says, hips twitching against his opponent’s mouth. 

No response.

Of all the no-good, no-selling, no-talent illiterates...Theseus knows he’s supposed to wait for a moment of warring wills for his next move to make sense, but that’s never going to happen. He improvises. With the inside of his left knee, he nudges the other to prepare him for bracing. Then, he goes on the offensive: pulls out of his opponent’s mouth with a wet pop, twists his legs around his upper body, and uses the torque to flip their positions. With his colleague underneath him, Theseus slides his body down until ass connects with clothed groin. The other fighter gasps, his face screws up — oh, so now he works with me, Theseus thinks.

“King! King! King!” come the yells from the stands as they dry hump. 

Theseus would be lying if he said the support didn’t help him actually finish. 

Because of course he isn’t satisfied by the sex. He tries to keep the grin on his face as he waves to fans. 

“A quick and clean win by King Theseus!” yells the play-by-play commentator at the sidelines, voice tinny on the gymnasium’s speakers. “Gotta say, starting our Shades-Only Rookie Preview with royalty sure does set the bar high.”

“He certainly sets the bar for being a loudmouth,” the colour commentator adds, which gets a few boos from Theseus’ loyal fans. “Reckon this is Nature Boytoy’s quietest match ever, ended so damn fast.”

It’s a good, gentle rib that Theseus had suggested prior to the match. Gives him a chance to look appalled at the commenters’ table, mouth agape and hands on his hips. After a moment’s deliberation, Theseus dismisses the low blow with a physical dusting of his shoulders and then, kisses blown to the audience. Show them that ultimately, their opinions are the only ones that matter to him; shows off his emotional range too, just a little. Not _too_ much, though.

It’s a good thing this is just an early access match and not his official intro. He feels bad for the shades; attendees who pay to watch these Elysium previews in-person deserve more from the babyface king. So he hams it up a bit more. Laughs a little louder. Strikes a few lewd poses with peace signs. The performance keeps him from needling his opponent, some mid-carder transferring from Asphodel Meadows who only does dark shows. He fucks decent enough, but he doesn’t _perform_. He fights just as well, but he doesn’t _wrestle_.

At least they get their money’s worth with his showboating. 

And possibly, in the next match.

Watching from gorilla position, Theseus can see his friend wipe his feet before stepping over the ropes (“Not between? He’s so tall,” he hears a nearby stagehand whisper) and positioning himself. 

When the bell rings and the referee gives the signal, Asterius whizzes. Theseus swears the tips of his horns leave afterimages like trailing highway lights. His opponent flinches at the speed, pushes back to put more distance between herself and the charging bull. But it’s exactly what Asterius wants, as he slows his rampage when his opponent’s back hits the ropes. Theseus can’t see from his vantage point what Asterius telegraphs, which is good, but he can tell that in a split second his opponent has figured out where to take the story: using the ropes’ resistance to charge up, she shoots back like an elastic band and meets Asterius dead-centre, who jerks back as if hit by a bullet. 

“That could’ve made for a most excellent clothesline,” he says offhand to the stagehands, who all nod, used to the King’s backstage commentary during the bull’s matches. “An arm out and voila! Victory!”

Theseus repeats his feedback two hours later, over drinks in a vegan leather bar. Emphasizes just so with his own arm, narrowly avoiding a scowling boylesque dancer.

Asterius agrees with a low hum. 

“I thought so too,” Asterius says. “Or a nice backdrop.” He raises his own arm to hail down the bartender for a top-up. Theseus smells Irish Spring. “But it would not make sense for the story.”

And this, this makes Theseus smile because, if no one else does, Asterius _gets it_. 

* * *

Elysium’s newest recruits don’t spend any time in real matches for their first month, but they do spend a lot of time in each other’s company.

They workout every other morning, in whichever of the many equipment rooms is emptiest or in a practice ring with trainers. Theseus likes wearing his Lululemon yoga pants with an Adidas mesh top cropped right above his nipples, as has always been his fitness wardrobe, but Asterius sticks to the standard-issue gear Elysium’s handlers gave to him in his first week.

“They took my measurements,” Asterius tells Theseus after the third consecutive day wearing grey sweatpants and a white ribbed undershirt hugging his body. “Nothing I own fits as well as this, I wash-and-dry every other night.”

“I’m not complaining!” Theseus insists. “You smell fine!” 

(Asterius really does. Theseus won’t dignify naming the bodily reaction he gets when Asterius stands too close.)

They have their orientation classes together too. Along with other rookies, mornings are spent on The Underworld’s floor for lecture halls. There’s a monologue from the Theban work “Antigone” Theseus is having a lot of fun with in Promo-Cutting 101. 

His less verbose partner has yet to take to the stage, but is a reliable volunteer for the following course, Dungeon Safety For Dummies. Class instructor Megaera doesn’t even call him up to the front anymore. With a crack of her whip and a beckoning head tilt, Asterius knows that he’s being asked to hold still while she demonstrates proper technique. (Theseus is still too scared of her from their last shoot together to even raise his hand.)  
  
When lunch rolls around, they skip the cafeteria soundtracked by whirling vitamixes, Theseus and his companion opt for sitting cross-legged in the grassy groves that make up Elysium’s outdoor training grounds, their only company the towering trees, climbing boulders covered in fake rocks, and occasional sprinting trainee.

It would be too quiet for Theseus to handle on his own, but with Asterius he feels comfortable enough to know that if he fills the silence with chatter, he won’t be looked down on. Which on this day, is something of great importance. 

“My dear friend,” he begins, a phrase he starts most of his sentences with nowadays, “Forgive my frankness, but we’re both seasoned professionals, are we not?”

The bull finishes his bite of panko-fried calamari before confirming. “We are.”  
  
“Am I not a flamboyant assault on the senses?”  
  
“You are.”  
  
“And in turn, are you not the most devastatingly handsome beast from the east?”

“That intro never made sense to me,” Asterius says. “Crete was south of the Athens promotion.”

Geography was never his strong suit, so Theseus presses on.  
  
“Then why aren’t we in real matches yet? Surely we’ve learnt enough to begin our epic storylines. I do not understand why they would hold back our girthy, burgeoning talents. ”  
  
Asterius shrugs. It’s something that Theseus is learning to decipher still, but he believes this is one of his I-agree-with-you-but-que-sera-sera shrug. 

Not one of his I-am-resigned-to-whatever-happens-because-this-is-suitable-for-someone-like-me shrugs.

“Onboarding will end soon,” Asterius says. “And personally speaking, I like this pace.”

Theseus wrinkles his nose, but the expression smooths when he catches how Asterius looks; back against a tree, one leg hiked. Posture open. Hand idly playing with the grass.

He acquiesces. Anything that has his friend so at ease must be worth it.

“That said,” Asterius admits, head tilting to crack his neck, “I am as eager to spar against competitors once more as you are.”

Theseus can feel just how much Asterius means those words the next day. Asterius pushes a little too hard in the gym, fires off on the machines as if the metal is eager, Athenian flesh that likes it rough. Wallops the punching bags with more roll to his hips than necessary. Falls, again and again, in a practice ring with their coaches, hits the barely padded mat with a deep grunt that Theseus has heard many a night.

Asterius is horny. It’s a sentiment that Theseus shares, an itch he can’t wait to scratch. And statistically, they’ll likely be alleviating it for each other at some point in the coming months. His mouth goes dry when he thinks that far ahead, so Theseus throws himself into the present. For a full week, Theseus workshops his character arc and potential storylines with the bookers in a conference room until his voice is hoarse. Adds to the hodgepodge of influences on his visionboard; Greek pottery, a vintage autograph from Gorgeous George, and Henry Cavill because, well, he’s Henry Cavill.

Sweats through his tracksuits by noon. Eats five meals a day, with Asterius or with his laptop running archival videos of fellow Undergrounders for research. Keeps up with Twitter. Works out. Jerks off. Thinks of yarn being yanked from his hands. Does what he does. Falls asleep in a heartbeat. Wakes up, smiling and ready to do it all again. 

He’s in paradise. 

Not every day is the same. Once, he spent a weekend with Underworld’s honey-voiced bearded composer. They bounced between string instruments and sample packs in a foam-covered closet before deciding on bağlama chords for his theme song. Theseus adored the strumming riffs in “The King,” but they both agreed a more driving sound would really punch it up.

“Wouldn’t fit a babyface though,” he lamented, hitting the red on the ZOOM recorder. 

“Tell you what,” the composer said, pushing up his glasses. “Lemme noodle with it. I’ve got a guitar at my home studio that might give it some edge. Can’t make any promises Hades will approve it, though.”

He gets a rough draft that _slays_ , but as suspected, it gets shelved by management. He holds onto the .wav though, just in case. One never knows when music can get patched into a storyline. 

In the final weeks, he and Asterius pause their workouts and begin individual practice matches. For Theseus, this means he spars every day with one of his first opponents, five friendly veterans written to give him one loss and four wins. It’s a fair ratio for a newcomer of his caliber. He deserves these wins and trains hard enough to almost convince himself so. 

Asterius, on the other hand...

“A single victory? Pah! A pox on your manager,” Theseus says, punctuating his point in the air with a grilled tofu-speared fork. 

They’ve taken to sharing off-clock dinners in Asterius’ home, as he was somewhat of a home chef and always prepped more vegetarian meals than he could fit in his freezer. (Theseus’ favourite so far is the fake orange duck. Least favourite? Beyond meat souvlaki.) On this evening, Asterius had greeted Theseus at the door with said tofu dish balanced on one hand, covered in an adorable pink stove mitten Theseus is still melting over.

Asterius shrugs, a motion that Theseus has seen his new friend do far too much. “It makes more sense for my character,” he explains. “A monster heel like me should lose more than a superman showman-type. I deserve nothing.”

“Untrue! If I was scripting for The Minotaur,” Theseus says, brow furrowing in thought as he dips a hand below the kitchen table to pet the fluffy white coat of Jorge, one of Asterius’ three cats. “If I was scripting, I’d set you up for a face turn. You’re already a known performer, the bookers can sell it without issue.”

They talk shop far more than Theseus’ other industry colleagues, even the ones he went to school with. Like them, he takes great care to make great porn, but Theseus is nothing if not a lover of storytelling: he’s going to act the hell out of any scene he’s in. There’s not a word Theseus says or thrust he doles that doesn’t align with his character’s motives. 

Asterius understands this. It’s unspoken, as with many of the little Asterius-isms he’s come to discover over these dinners. 

Like how much his nose ring moves when he snorts shows how funny Asterius finds a salacious rumour Theseus stage-whispers. 

The rhythm his foot taps when he does their dishes lets Theseus know how intense or light his practice was. 

And he’s especially grateful for the way Asterius kindly looks aside when Theseus needs to break the ever-present fourth wall. He’d done this with such suaveness when they met up on a slow bar night and Theseus had to cut a diatribe short to take a call from the dentist about bumping a wisdom tooth removal. Asterius made a slight tilt to the side, as if he decided to enjoy the crowd and watch a harness-wearing drag king collect his bills at that exact moment in time. It was incredibly polite and Theseus is a sucker for manners. Blame it on his competency kink. People who notice other people make him rock hard.

Asterius telegraphs like a champ, a strength Theseus is salivating to see face-to-face in the ring. 

* * *

They fight through their first wave of opponents. And the wave after. And the third.

Asterius and Theseus still don’t fight each other.

He brings this up to the bookers three months after their hire date. 

“Asterius and I are the most promising rookies this brand has ever seen,” he says, a hand smacked dab-centre of his chest; another, fanned out and cast back for emphasis. “Why not pit the Minotaur and the former king of Athens against each other once more?”

And, for good measure, he adds: “Easily A-show material on ‘Labyrinth’ brand name alone.”

He gets waved off by the Fates. “Not time yet,” they tell him cryptically. 

So Asterius and Theseus don’t fight. But they fight others and they do it _well_.

As one of Elysium’s few monster heels, Asterius gets trotted out as muscle a lot. His roles include looking menacing behind the brand’s most hated, Hitachi-wanding trembling B-listers who need to make early exits, and on occasion, winning against wrestlers overdue for a loss. Modest, steady work, the kind that builds its way to greatness, Theseus is sure.

Matches with the bull are deeply satisfying to watch from gorilla position and he swells with pride seeing his friend’s moves become more explosive, his shrugs with less frequency. 

But Theseus begins to notice a pattern: Asterius never cums. His matches only end with his opponent’s frantic climax. Thinking back, all of his indie clips were much the same. The dry spell does not make sense to Theseus, who recalls in vivid detail how much the bull filled him in “Labyrinth,” practically rivering down his thighs. 

It’s not something that he can ask, even in kayfabe. So he doesn’t. Privacy in matters such as these is best to be respected. 

On his end, the king of babyfaces reigns on. Wins against would-be usurpers. Loses graciously against the odd warrior enjoying a stroke of luck (and strokes from Theseus). 

The pair spend their weekends exchanging strategies in city parks and on patios, filling a notebook drawn diagrams and move execution steps. 

Theseus would normally get anxious—after all, not everyone lives and breathes erotic wrestling like he does. The last thing he’d want to do is annoy his new friend and colleague by overstepping some personal-professional boundary. But the Asterius-isms tell him not to worry: the bull leans back in his chair when Theseus describes in-ring psychology he agrees with. Taps the side of his snout when he’s thinking hard on making something shine. And when he’s enjoying a story from Theseus, his ears perk in different directions and his eyes are as black as wet obsidian. 

Over Sunday brunch and a pitcher of pomegranate-infused mimosa that makes Asterius’ throat bob in a very distracting manner, they come up with a great combo.

“You perfected the rearview in your last match, my king,” Asterius says, unprompted, halfway through his kale and feta cheese salad. “The descent sells it.”

Theseus takes a sip. Behind the glass, he feels his face warm at the nickname Asterius had taken to calling him by as of late. He doesn’t remember exactly when the bull started calling him king, like his fanbase did. 

Maybe they were both in deep kayfabe, rehearsing lines in an Elysium lecture hall. Or shooting the shit on their lunch break, coming up with monikers to give colour commenters. (“The Stud Who Makes Floods” and “Battle Cattle” had been shot down, but Theseus has faith his friend will come around.)

At any rate, the bull makes the word sound completely new. Tender. Something that melts in the mouth. 

Wow, Theseus thinks, this mimosa is _hitting_.

“Thank you, noble Asterius,” Theseus responds, putting down his cocktail and puffing himself up. Makes a nice show of liking the praise. “It’s all due to your prior tutelage. I just wish it had a titillating finisher to spur my adoring audience even further!”

Asterius takes a moment to think. “A position that springs from the pose you land in would look smooth.”

The answer comes to Theseus like a thunderclap. “Eureka!” he says, eyes wide and mouth giddy with drink. “Oh dear friend, you’re a muse. It’s obvious to me now. When my enemy is struck down by the force of my superior posterior, I must bend my knees and request a rimjob!”

At that, Asterius laughs. It’s a full belly sound, louder than the snorts and quiet chuckles Theseus has coaxed out, but higher than he’d presume. Less rumbly. Makes him sound younger. It rings like bell peals through Theseus and at the start of his next match, he thinks of the bull.

* * *

They don’t review their match clips on their outings because neither wants to be The Guy Who Watches Porn In Public, but Theseus occasionally airdrops Asterius a rough cut to pick his brain on how well he sells a rearview-rimjob here or a boobplex there. Asterius isn’t as bold and rarely asks anything of Theseus. But one day, mid-squat, he calls on Theseus for assistance with his own conundrum.

“My entrance needs work,” he tells Theseus. 

“Can you show me?” Theseus asks, setting down a kettlebell.

He does, but only much later and privately. They end up at Asterius’ place, barely through the bedroom’s doorframe before Asterius makes good on his word. 

“Ah, there’s your problem, dear friend,” Theseus says, from his perching spot on the side of the bed. “You’re angling for a room, like we did for indies.”

Asterius does his entrance again, adjusting as Theseus suggests. And there’s definitely an improvement; the change when he walks in, pretending he’s setting foot in a stadium filled with fans as opposed to a small cramped area, like where “Labyrinth” was shot. Both entrance versions are imposing, but the arena-friendly one plays to all the angles tilting cameras would be in. 

“Only if you choose to be recorded!” Theseus adds. “I know you’re still doing dark shows.”

Asterius pauses mid-move. Turns around. “Yes,” he says, “I see no reason to do otherwise.”

Theseus notices his friend’s tail is tucked between his legs.

* * *

**@TheMinotaurXXX:** Hello #Twitter. Thank you to those who attended my show tonight. I’ll be fighting again on Saturday. 

_50 replies | 41 retweets | 121 likes_

_Show this thread_

**@smegmagorgon:** yessssss

 **@notafurrybut:** anyone know who he’s facing? @KINGTHESEUS maybe????

@ **Sandman420** : my sources tell me no （；へ：）

 **@notafurrybut:** booooo! 

**@labystan4life** : Wish he’d do a cam thing. Honestly i’d take a promo at this point

 **@smarktwain:** the king RTed so i wouldnt believe @Sandman420

 **@smarktwain:** this joker’s pinned is a picture of ikea meatballs and the words “training to gargle the Minotaur’s nuts” 

@ **Sandman420** : (◠‿◠)

@ **Sandman420** : (◠‿◠)

@ **Sandman420** : (◕◡◕)

_[The account_ **_@smarktwain_ ** _is temporarily suspended]_

* * *

“So, when are you going to fuck my brother?” Ariadne asks, leaning over the liquor store counter.

Theseus drops his case of ouzo. The bottles don’t break, cushioned from the fall by landing on his feet. He curses. Ariadne watches him pick them up without pity. 

“Asterius has adult ESL on Friday evenings,” she says, as she starts to scan everything in his cart. “His last assignment was to share a happy recent memory. Do you want to know what he wrote his essay on?”

“Er, do I?” 

“My silly big brother made me proofread a 15-page ode to how bronze your skin got on some downtown fucking patio,” she says with no small amount of venom. “And your dumb plan to turn eating ass into wrestling. Cash or credit.”

“It’s my signature move at the moment,” Theseus says uselessly, pulling out his card. 

“You gave him brain worms!” she accuses, jabbing a finger at Theseus. “The same ones you gave me for a like, a week in college.”

“It was two weeks!”

“A week,” Ariadne says, her hand pulling a scroll of a receipt from the register. “Gods, are you planning to fill a bathtub with this?” 

“Yes actually,” Theseus says. “It was your boyfriend’s idea.”

* * *

  
  


The whole fight’s set-up is, in fact, Dionsyus’ idea. Theseus isn’t sure why they needed to use actual alcohol for a dark show, but Dionysus insisted on authenticity. And who is Theseus to stand in the way of theatrics? Better yet, those desired by an Olympian? If Theseus is high on the card, the Olympus pantheon is in the stratosphere. 

Theseus, along with several others in Elysium, will be background actors for the crossover event: a reunion match between Dionysus and Prosymnus, an Underworld coworker so low on the card that Theseus had to look him up before their match. 

(“I think D owed him a favour IRL,” Ariadne explains via text. “There was a thing with his mom way back.”

“I am in your debt, fair Ariadne,” he writes back. “Also, there is no way your fine half-brother has ‘the brain worms,’ as you so slanderously insinuated earlier.”

All he gets back are two emojis: “🧠🐛”)

Whatever the cause for the pair-up, both he and Asterius find themselves pumping their dicks, sitting side-by-side on benches around the ring. In the centre, Dionysus preps with a wooden dildo.

“ _Mhmm_ , yes, that is quite, _ohhhhh_ , that’s the stuff, man,” Dionysus drawls. “Good as grapes, that is.”

The audience sounds like they’re writhing, as the laidback Olympian’s juicy ass takes the hardwood toy in. Each time the smooth mahogany disappears into the wrestler, the onlookers seem to moan as one.

It’s intoxicating, or it would be if Theseus wasn’t so busy taking in just how soft Asterius’ fur feels against his thigh and how shallow Asterius breathes when he’s working himself up and gods has the bull’s cloying musk always smelled this good?

Theseus bites his lip as he tries to make himself last. Prosymnus is set to appear any moment now, rolling in via an alcohol-filled bathtub on wheels for their very sloshy fuck scene. The story makes no sense, but nothing in erotic wrestling does. Why start now? 

His mind conjures the unsexiest things he knows to counter the growing orgasm: tax season, criminalized sex work, wrestlers who fight stiff.

But the word “stiff” makes him think of “hard.” And then his mind betrays him: _If you just look down,_ it promises _, you’ll see that big dick of his you love so much. If you just lean over with your mouth open, you could make it even bigger._

* * *

Theseus could die. He could literally die. No funeral necessary, just throw his body over a seaside cliff and let the gulls have supper.

He calls in sick for three days. Lives in his bed. Tries not to read the dirt sheets, but fails miserably. 

_THE KING’S SHORTCUMMING!_

_Why Theseus Jizzed Early At Dionysus Crossover (You’ll never guess their IRL connection!!!)_

_Did Hermes Curse The Babyface King’s Dick? (Kayfabe-friendly)_

Asterius texts him a few times to cheer him up. Sends photos of Jorge playing with yarn and Borges sleeping in a sunbeam. Theseus opens these and dawws, but doesn’t reply. 

How could he? He’s let down his fans. He doesn’t deserve a place in Elysium anymore. Nor a place by the bull’s side. 

It hurts as much as a battle wound when he imagines how disappointed everyone is in him. He might as well go back to the indies. To repent for this failing, he must leave paradise and his cherished friend. 

_And that’s where the trouble lies_ , his traitorous mind teases. _He’s just your friend._

Theseus screams into his pillow. 

He’s still screaming when he hears a knock on the door. 

“Hello,” Asterius says when Theseus answers. As the bull ducks his head when he enters, Theseus makes himself slightly more presentable with what’s laying on the nearest counter: a dash of tinted balm on his lips and cheeks, mascara slapped on his lashes and brows. A Hello Kitty zit sticker gets popped on an awful stress pimple occupying his chin.

He can’t do anything about his bedhead, so he runs a hand through his hair and hopes for the best.

When he faces Asterius again, a bouquet of daisies is thrust onto him.

“What an exceptional token of appreciation, dear Asterius,” Theseus says, fighting the urge to hug the flowers against his heart. “Thank you! May I ask why?” 

“You saved my life,” Asterius says. As soon as the words are said, he hides his face in his hands. “Oh. Forgive me, my king. I speak without decency. Can we sit down? This will break kayfabe.”

It’s serious. Theseus obliges and when Asterius opens his mouth next, he’s more careful with his words. 

There’s a lot he doesn’t say, but Theseus is good at subtext. He knows what it means when someone is kept out of school by a parent and uses the words “no-contact.” And he knows what it means when a young man signs exploitative contracts that he literally can’t read. 

Asterius doesn’t have to explain exactly why he goes to therapy, but Theseus gets his shoulders to relax with a joke about the CBT Asterius does with his social worker VS the CBT Megara is famous for doling out expertly (of which Theseus can attest to; her backstage aloof demeanour was way more torturous). Gets him to drink water instead of powering through when he begins to stutter while describing the maze of paperwork that was emancipation. Dials the bull’s favourite vegan Chinese joint while he drinks. Steals seitan from the other’s takeout container with a stab of a single chopstick, which earns him another of those bell-like laughs and an impromptu lesson in proper chopstick use. 

(“Like this?” “Like this.” “Pah! I’ll just use my hands.” “Please don’t.” “Then you’ll have to feed me.” “OK.”)

“I say all this, Theseus, to make it clear how much your presence in my life has improved it,” Asterius says, leaning back in his chair and putting his chopsticks down. “Do not doubt your greatness.” 

Theseus doesn’t reply immediately, fighting the furious blush spreading across his face and the urge to speak with his mouth full. _Full of what Asterius put in it. That’s not the only thing he could--_

His companion takes the rare silence as an opportunity to emphasize his point.

“You’ve never feared me. Never made me feel lesser. Subhuman,” Asterius says. “Since day one, you’ve seen someone in me no one else does.”

“And who’s that?” Theseus asks.

“A good guy,” Asterius says simply. “You even said so yourself when we met.”

“My esteemed associate, I do believe my first words to you were—and I quote from taped evidence—‘Wow, you’re tall.’”

Asterius shakes his head. “No they weren’t. We talked backstage.”

It’s then the fog of memory lifts and Theseus remembers a snatch from that brief encounter.

_“Hail, you strapping warrior! Are we to do battle today?” he had asked the performer towering above the craft table._

_“...Yes.”_

_“Outstanding!” Theseus clapped his opponent on the arm. Grinned upwards, at a face hidden by shaggy hair. Then, in typical Theseus fashion, he hogged the conversation: “I must confess, this is my first time dabbling in the monsterfucking genre, but I hear you’re a good fellow to work with! Considerate, capable, and well-endowed! Just how I like them!”_

_“...Really.”_

_“Really! Tell me, will you indulge in note-sharing before our glorious scene? I have this backstory for my character I’d love to run by you. We should make certain it does not contradict the refined in-ring portrayal we’ve seen of The Minotaur so far. And what a ferocious moniker! It fits a dignified beast such as yourself. You simply must tell me more...”_

“At first, I thought you were making fun of me,” Asterius confesses. “No one ever talked to me like that. But you weren’t. That meant the world. _You_ mean the world.”

Theseus is, for once, speechless.

“It’s why I wanted to bring you those,” Asterius says, gesturing at the bouquet. “Because I think I’ve known you long enough now to recognize when you’re being too mean to yourself.”

Theseus shakes his head. “Balderdash! I’m merely afflicted with a case of, ah, the vapours! Yes! I shall return to the combat zone shortly.”

Asterius raises an eyebrow. “You’re not sick. You’re shame-spiraling and thinking of quitting your job.”

“No,” Theseus lies. “I have the vapours. Even now, I feel a gust coming.”

Asterius shrugs and it’s unlike every other shrug Theseus has seen so far. The bull’s easy smile and the softness of his eyes are tells he’s not familiar with. After Asterius leaves him with a long hug and a hair ruffle, he tries to define it. He’s still trying when he fills a vase with water; rolls into bed; taps into his phone a search that has him scrolling for an hour.

_“what does it mean when someone gives you daisies”_

* * *

He shows his sorry face at Elysium the next day, with a notes app apology addressed to management for when they inevitably tear him apart. 

They never do. But towards the end of his shift, he gets a summons that terrifies him even more.

“It’s time,” the Fates tell him in unison, as they usually speak. 

“Would you be so kind as to elaborate?”

“You’re going to fight Asterius,” they say. “Setting him up for a face turn.”

Theseus breathes a sigh of relief. “Finally!”

“Slowburn,” they warn. “Dark show too. Don’t mention ‘Labyrinth.’ And call him ‘The Bull of Minos’ instead of “The Minotaur” as much as possible.” 

“Crete’s C&D is a nightmare,” one of them mutters.

“Be that as it may, we’ll draw numbers unlike anything Elysium has seen before,” Theseus promises. 

It’s one he intends to keep: He may view himself less than favourably, but his belief in Asterius is forged in iron. He will not shirk in his duties if it means Asterius loses out. 

On the subject of iron...Theseus feels an idea for their match beginning to form. 

* * *

The opening bounce of [ Ginuine’s “Pony”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lbnoG2dsUk0) fills the arena as Theseus enters.

He saunters down the runway wearing tennis shoes, a cowboy hat, and nothing else. As he grows closer, he watches Asterius swallow. The audience cheers, believing the bull in the ring was gulping in fear. He sees the motion and is reminded of his favourite Sunday.

Asterius, as if reading his mind, dips his head so the spotlight casts a shadow on his face, one that hides the quick wink he gives Theseus from the crowd. 

Cute, he thinks helplessly. Thank the gods he doesn’t have to climb into the ring with an erection.

“Bull of Minos,” King Theseus booms just as the sound operator slides the volume down, pointing a finger once he reaches the runway’s end. “We meet again. Did they let you out of your pen for this?”

Theseus tries not to wince saying this necessary goad. His opponent is known for silence and needs to be pushed hard to resort to name-calling. Besides, Theseus wants them to have some nice banter for the smarks to clip.

“That’s rich. Coming from a,” Asterius pauses to adjust his pink chest harness and gesture at Theseus’ hat. “Buckle bunny.” That gets a few chuckles, from the cross-sections of smarks and rodeo nerds.

Theseus goes red (an on-command talent he’s thankful for every day) and retaliates. “A buckle bunny?!” he screeches. He dramatically whips off his hat, pulls out a remote control with a big red button, and presses it with a flourish for the production crew to see. The recessed platform in front of him rises to reveal their match’s prop.

The crowd oohs. The Bull of Minos cocks his head to the side. 

Theseus tosses the remote over his shoulder, and jumps into the saddle of a mechanical bull; its black fur and pale horns a dead ringer for Asterius’ own.

“Your mocking words lead me to believe you don’t know the terms of our match,” Theseus says. “Allow me to enlighten you: the contestant who is felled by this iron cousin of yours the fastest will be disqualified from the Rookie Rumble!” 

That gets the audience’s attention, as both Theseus and Asterius are big draws in the upcoming tournament. 

“I’ll go first, of course,” Theseus says from his seat. “Let me show you, Bull, how a king rides.”

At this, he throws his hat and it lands on Asterius’ left horn. As the crowd roars, Theseus winks at his stunned opponent. He’d blow a kiss if he could. 

Theseus rolls in lazy circles as the mechanical bull wakes and “Pony” starts up again, gyrating in time to the song’s dripping beat. He keeps a heavy-lidded gaze trained on Asterius as he body rolls to the mount’s spinning. Fingers zhuzhing up his hair, letting his thick locks fall real slow.

Then, the machine kicks into high gear. High right, two feints, and a hard left, four reps and one reversed. Theseus leans high, head bobbing but his centre of gravity as still as a stone. Mouth lip-syncing the words. He’s making it look easy. If it wasn’t for that month of bucking barrel training and yoga ball drills, he’d probably be holding on for dear life. With every jerk, Theseus counteracts by leaning into the opposite direction with his upper body, a physical feat he eroticizes with flicking wrists, beckoning arms, and plenty of hairography. 

Just when he’s getting worked up, the machine suddenly stops. It starts once, twice, then dies with a comical pre-record fritzing sound.

“Wretched steed! I’m not done with you!” Theseus shouts, his hips still moving to the beat. He bites his lip, and looks around the arena, desperate for release. And then his eyes land on Asterius and a grin starts to spread on his face.

“You’ll have to do,” he tells Asterius, slipping down from his seat and strutting towards the ring. Theseus doesn’t move a muscle once he’s in, lets the audience’s anticipation build to a crescendo. Most cheer for the champion, but there are enough voices in the crowd warning the Bull to stand his ground.

Their next actions telegraph the beginnings of Asterius’ heroism: he doesn’t move to squash his foe before the bell rings them in. Allows his opponent time to pump up the crowd with waves. Stays stoic while Theseus teases him with a vulgar hand motion.

But this is just the beginning of his journey. He still needs to be a heel to the babyface king. Asterius takes the hat from his horn and hurls it on the ground, landing at the king’s feet. Theseus reaches down to pick it up...and as he does, gets a knee right in the face, timed just as the three rings go. Borderline dirty.

Theseus howls and staggers back, holding his nose as he stuffs the hat on. Asterius turns around, grandstands for the onlookers. It gives Theseus a chance to attack him and make the bull fall on a conveniently-placed cushion that happens to put him in the perfect bull-riding position.

Theseus climbs on Asterius with the ease of a rodeo rider swinging into his prized stallion’s saddle for the hundredth time. Then he grinds down, hard. 

Asterius seizes, lost in pleasure, before snapping out of it. He arches as if to furiously buck the king off, pistoning the sky while one hand lies on Theseus’ thigh to monitor where his weight rises and falls.

Theseus whoops as he’s swung into the air, whipping his cowboy hat off his head and saluting the screaming crowds. He hasn’t heard cheers this loud in ages.

Asterius makes a hard left and Theseus grips onto the bull’s chest harness as their bodies separate, then smash back into each other’s orbit. He grinds down between counts, delighting in the delicious slide of sweaty skin and his partner’s hardness teasing his hole with every tantalizing brush.

Asterius throws in an improvised twist of his hips that Theseus moans through, feeling himself clench around nothing, as if his body believes a dick should be stretching his insides out already.

Who is Theseus to deny it? He leans over with a smirk, pulling up on the bull’s harness to meet him eye-to-eye. Then, inch-by-inch, he sinks down: Into the deep, the arena’s thundering praise, and Asterius’ blown-out, dilated eyes. 

* * *

**@TheMinotaurXXX:** Hello #Twitter. Thank you to those who attended my fight against @KINGTHESEUS. Maybe I’ll win next time :) 

_250 replies | 341 retweets | 521 likes_

_Show this thread_

**@royalflushed:** good sir i think we all won tonight

 **@Undertowtaker:** ghghghhhhhhhhhh

 **@Numbsku11:** IS IT TRUE HE CAME OH MY FUCKING GOD

 **@Sandman420:** Theseus when he took your nut [video of a Krispy Kreme donut getting glazed]

 **@bullykinks:** YOOOOOOOOOO PICS PLS

 **@royalflushed:** sorry mate, he’s dark show only

 **@bullykinks:** im legit gonna cry ;_;

 **_@smarktwain:_ **who cares? I’m betting he faked it anyway

@ **Sandman420** : 

(◠‿◠)

@ **Sandman420** :

◠

(◠‿◠)

@ **Sandman420** : 

◕

(◕◡◕)

_[The account_ **_@smarktwain_ ** _is no longer available]_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was floored by the nice words said about the last chapter. This goddamn AU has lived in my head for so long that I was convinced I was the only one who could dig it. Thank you very much for reading! :) There are two inspos behind daisies and if anyone can name one, I'd be mighty impressed.

**Author's Note:**

> Yell at me on twitter: @casinotaur
> 
> Inspired by how blatantly Theseus is wrestling-inspired in the game, from his massive belt to his mic skills. Forgive any WWE fuckups. I have more experience in sex work than I do in wrestling, otherwise this would've been played straight. 
> 
> There are two-and-half chapters of this in the can for a planned three chapters, but I’m stuck in revision hell. Hopefully just posting this can get my noggin working again.


End file.
